Monotony is not a place

Our Camino guide books warned us about the meseta; the vast high level plateau that we cross between Burgos and Leon. They seemed to sum it up as hot, flat and dry, with a few small farming villages to break up the journey. Some walking pilgrims we met told it slightly differently, “It’s soooo monotonous; the same, same, same, all day long; hot, hot, hot; boring, boring, boring.” But after the physical struggles of the early mountain stages of the Camino, the meseta seemed a welcome break to us. Just imagine 200km of flat after a week or more climbing the equivalent of the Andes. Suddenly we were making progress, killing kilometres, speeding along - at least between the hours of eight and one, after that it was too hot to move, until sundown.

It’s easy to think habits will be hard to change. I thought it would be impossible to get the whole family into a routine of early morning riding, afternoon siestas and a late evening push. But after a few adjustments to the bonus system the boys showed an incredible willingness to change their behaviour if it would help them earn money. So in the light of the rising sun, in the cool of the early mornings, we made tracks across the meseta, setting off early, breakfasting at eleven, riding until one then relaxing in the afternoons, working Spanish style.


Between Burgos and Leon, it’s not just our behaviour and the landscape that changed but the colour tone too, from green to gold; the varied palette of the forest, olive and vine of Navarre and Rioja giving way to horizon spanning vistas of golden cereals. The meseta of today’s Castille and Leon is like some vast 21st century agro-industrial enterprise, every inch of soil sowed with cereals, watered by pump, valve, sluice, canal and sprinkler in measured response to the natural daily roasting of the fierce summer sun.

It must have been a different experience for mediaeval pilgrims, without these vast uplifting auras of gold, hobbling from village to village through scrubland, forest or uncultivated bush, ever mindful of stories of crooks, robbers and bandits. It’s hard to imagine just what this journey would be like in a different time; it’s hard enough to appreciate what it’s like for those doing the same journey today by different means, or even the same way but on a different bike. While I’m contemplating the life of a mediaeval pilgrim, Cameron is busy studying Top Trumps and Matthew and Kirstie are talking Star Wars.

But I guess wherever and however you travel, while the physical journey may be the same the personal journey will always be different. At times in this endless golden flatness, I’ve found myself wishing this ‘boring’ ‘monotonous’ journey was over. But nothing is really the same, same, same is it? Isn’t monotony more a state of mind than a place? For there are times too when I’ve spent an hour quite engrossed by a little thing that seems to make this kilometre different in some way to the last; how my shadow changes as the sun tracks across the sky; the changing sound of a distant harvester; the unfolding mystery of a pueblo in the distance. And so I find myself wishing sometimes that this journey would just end, then later wishing it would never end. Has a week on the meseta driven me crazy, is life just full of contradictions or do I need to get myself an mp3?

The essence of the Camino

A woman stopped us at a Pilgrim cross on the walker's Camino just outside Astorga. 'Have your children discovered the essence of the Camino yet?' she asked. I think she must have been talking about those one euro plastic chupa balls the kids discover every time we stop. Every village on the Camino seems to sell them. I think we are carrying about 14 of them now.

Facial hair

Stuart has copied out all the words from the hymn To Be A Pilgrim, has started to grow a beard and has taken to shouting Buen Camino to other pilgrims on the route with love in his heart. Anyone else find this a bit worrying?

At home in the albergue?

For much of this journey the walking pilgrims have held a strange fascination for me. Who are they and why are they making this journey? Why do they do it? If you looked down on this region from space early in the morning you would see a line of thousands every single day stretching 800 kilometres, from the mountains to the sea. All plodding slowly to their mecca.Santiago De Compostella. But how is it that they can cover the landscape for all those a.m. hours but melt into the horizon after midday and not be seen again until early the next morning? Where do they go? Today we found out the answer when we stumbled into an albergue in the town of Hospital de Orbega? An albergue is a pilgrim refuge; a cheap bed for the night, like a youth hostel used to be before they went up- market.

Twenty pairs of boots sat on the rack, and plants trailed down the walls. Stones placed carefully on the hall table were painted with welcome greetings in every language, as well as one that told the pilgrim world that 'Tony' was once 'ere. A tiny courtyard led through to a wider garden and an amply chested woman with blond ringlets beckoned us in with great enthusiasm. We had been sent to this town albergue; the former parish house, by an old lady in charge of stamping our pilgrim passports in the church. She told us it would be a rest stop for our ninos, and our guidebook had sealed the deal by recommending popping in for warm hospitality which we had convinced ourselves meant tea and cake. Instead we were shown a tiny kitchen and some showers and asked if we'd be booking in for the night. We muttered something non-committal and entered the garden. By any stretch of the imagination it wasn't Eden. In fact it was remarkably similiar to the patches of scrubland we had been camping on for the last month. In the middle was a tall cross in black and white metal, with a shrine underneath of more pebbles, pot plants, and what appeared to be cabbage leaves. A few metres from the cross a woman in a black bikini lay face down on the dried grass. On her sat a man wearing a leather cowboy hat and cycle shorts, earnestly giving her a full body massage, pummelling her back and then her legs. All around the courtyard there was pastel and white washing hanging everywhere; absolutely everywhere to dry; on whirligigs, washing lines and trees. On wooden benches several people sat earnestly recording their inner journeys in small notebooks, and sticking bits of paper into journals. Others lazed in the sun. I thought I saw Jimmy Saville behind a bush. After our mostly solitary journey on the bikes, it was a bit too much for me; and too many weird people. Too many people crowded into one hot, dusty, dry and washing filled space. And there was no tea and cake. But we had to wait a polite amount of time before we could leave. Matthew redeemed the situation for us by announcing he needed the toilet. Twenty minutes later he was ready to leave. 'Beer and camping?' I said to Stuart.. We tried to creep out discreetly but the line of people queuing up to wish us a 'Buen Camino' nearly tripped us up.

No matter what the weather

Today the trouble is not the heat, although it is hot. Nor is it the hills, but of course it is hilly. No, today we face the wind, on the nose, pushing us back to Leon as we push towards the mountains between us and Santiago. But one constant remains; the kids unending thirst for ice cream, whatever the weather, conditions or time of day.

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The Pilgrim Motorway

Since we changed our daily timetable to avoid cycling in the heat of the midday sun, we have become part of something bigger than us. Whereas for the first few weeks we got up at ten and breakfasted late before cycling off in the afternoon, now we are up at seven and away by half past, in the company of an enormous stream of people.

They begin marching past us at six in the morning; you can hear them approaching by the clatter of their sticks in the dry earth. And by the time we’ve packed up the tent and cycled off, they are walking in a long line as far as the horizon like a stream of ants with backpacks. At each village twenty or thirty more rejoin the camino after stopping for coffee or lunch. As we are cycling roughly the same amount of distance each day as they are walking, we begin to see the same characters over and over; Jimmy Saville who bombs past with his long socks and white hair; the fifty kilometre a day boys- three cyclists who all speak different languages yet are doing the trip together at the same pace as us, the hooting pilgrim, who drives around honking his horn at other peregrinos and the English students taking holiday from university who spend all their resting time complaining about the hostel they spent the previous night in. And then there’s the guy carrying a large homemade cross who stopped Stuart to ask for water but had lost his bottle.

It’s curious to two people who’ve always travelled independently to become part of this enormous cultural phenomenon; the guide books tell us that by the time we reach Santiago a thousand pilgrims a day will walk or cycle the last few kilometres of the camino into the city. And people are starting to recognise us too; I’ve lost count of how many pilgrims have taken our picture. Today we are in Leon, and have merged into the city, no longer obvious pilgrims or cyclists, but a family of tourists. Tonight in the big city of Leon, we will leave the camino behind and go in search of a good bar for a litre or two of vino tinto. Spirits instead of spirituality I think. And we’ll be avoiding anyone with a backpack or stick...unless they’re Jimmy Saville.

A real tonic

We had heard about the mythical g and t stash from other mystic travellers on The Road but thought nothing more of it. Then as we wild camped at a rest spot near El Burgo de Ranero the boys complained of a smell of gin. Under the tree we found a dozen unopened bottles of Schweppes tonic. The search is underway for the Gordon's.

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Lost passports

Some say the camino dictates your pace, not you. I think we must have been going too fast. We had ridden hard to get to the statue of a pilgrim doing an impression of Darth Vader when we discovered the force was not with us and our Pilgrim Passports had been left on a church bench back in Fromista. You are not a Pilgrim without your passport. An extra 16 km to retrieve them put us back on Camino time.

Going wild

After the blow out at the Parador we have been forced to cut back on camp site fees and instigated an emergency programme of compulsory wild camping until financial order is restored. It's a game of Russian Roulette. The first night we swept into the glorious cul de sac of San Juan de Ortega bt sunset. A pilgrim on a mandolin led us to a perfect picnic bench in the shadow of the convent and 50m from a bar. Last night we thought we had found another perfect pitch, 5km beyond Burgos next to a children's playground in landscaped gardens within a new as yet unoccupied urban development. It was all very peaceful until 5am when a dozen sprinklers concealed in the lawns burst into life all around our tent. The only saving grace was we there wasn't one actually in the tent. Today we gave thanks for the incredible drying power of the sun. Who knows what tonight will bring.

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Ten before ten

Last night's mid trip review revealed a growing gap between where we are and where we need to be if we are to make Santiago and then get back to Bilbao in time for the ferry. We are several days behind and slipping. So we all agreed we need to up the pace. Trouble is the heat is too much by 1pm so the only way to make progress is to ride early. But that's not easy with the kids as they don't go to sleep until lights out (sundown) @ 10.30pm and left to their own devices don't wake until 10 am. Getting them up and on the road by 8 means losing 3 hours sleep and that means 3 grumpy kids. Today we took a gamble and got everyone up at 7. We rode early, made good progress achieving our new goal of ten before ten and stopped at 1 to try and siesta but with mixed results. Matt decide to read, Hannah played bat and ball, Kirstie and Cameron had a lovely snooze and I watched the gear. I suppose we should consider that a success.


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Living for the moment

I’ve joined the crowd and discovered the delights of the MP3. I now see why the children have been so absorbed on blisteringly dull patches of riding. Grinding up long steep hills with burnt land or vineyards stretching out as far as the eye can see is so much more fun and atmospheric when you can do it with Sting crooning away about his ‘fields of gold.’ Last night on a particularly hard stretch of gravel with the sun blasting into my face and no breeze, it was only Gary Barlow that got me through the whole ordeal. And as I rode out yesterday from Logrono, a burst of Mozart coincided with the beginning of this dirt road next to which miles of fence had been studded with home made crosses. Literally tens of thousands of them; little and large wooden sticks gathered from the scrub and weaved into crosses, framing the urban landscape and the motorway beneath with a studded wall reminding the religiously motivated pilgrims of why they are there, and giving the others something interesting to look at.

As I clung on for dear life to the handlebars (I hate going off road) I wondered if for most of this road I have missed the point of it. I’ve been worrying away about the cycling, concentrating on getting from A to B, and taking care of feeding the kids whereas so many others are there to feed their souls and concentrate on their spiritual path. In my experience there’s little room for finding yourself when you’re fully occupied scrabbling around to locate clean socks for everyone, ensuring there’s enough healthy food in the picnic bag to feed the rabble at least three times a day, and locating the right road at the right time, when everyone is in the right mood. But then perhaps all our family journeys have been pilgrimages of a kind. While there may not be time for any of those big life changing experiences people talk about, there are hundreds of little ‘moments’ that are spiritual and memorable in their own way. And here you find them when you least expect them. As the children dashed off the bikes to make their own crosses out of wood and grass, I glanced at my baby sleeping peacefully in the buggy, her head lolling, and her spectacles hanging lopsided across her face. Then I thought of our new nephew we’d just been told had been born. (congratulations Angela and Joe) The sky was blue, the makeshift crosses led the way down the gravel hill and I had a new battery in the MP3. It’s never just about the cycling.

Under the stars

Last night we slept like ancient pilgrims, under a million stars, lying on the dust, with the gentle breeze touching our cheeks. Tonight we are sleeping under three stars, in Santo Domingo De La Calzada's luxurious parador, converted from a former convent.

Last night our dinner was a tin of corned beef divided into five portions. Tonight we've already eaten all the goodnight chocolates left on our pillows and have spent the last half an hour translating the lengthy dinner menu into English so we don't waste any time when the restaurant opens.

Pilgrim Pooding

When supplies run low and all the supermercados are closed because it is Sunday, you need to improvise. Today's special recipe requires 1 old banana, 3 stale biscuits, some chocolate Nocilla spread and some squeezy strawberry jam. Mix together until very brown and sticky. Then eat the goo and wash down with water. To find out what the boys thought of it, go visit their blogs. For some reason it has become known as Pilgrim Pooding.

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Up and down in the Kingdom of Navarre

Riding tandem is a strangely solitary experience when your stoker has his mp3 on. When Cameron disappears into his earpieces, to a world of Molly Moon and Monsters Inc, I'm riding solo; except I've got 100 kilos of cargo pulling me backwards for each pedal forwards. Some pilgrims carry stones with them on their journey, each stone a sin to be redeemed on arrival in Santiago. I wonder if it has to be stones, or is there some kind of weight for weight equivalent I can claim.

The road is quiet except for a regular little click that comes from my bottom bracket. Click. One for each turn of the pedal. Click. Tapping out my cadence. Click. It's slow now, as we crawl uphill. Click. My watch, fastened to my handlebars tells me the time, climb and altitude. Click. I time the clicks. 40 per minute. A slow grind. Click.

As pedalling pilgrims we travel the camino at a changing pace, our speed determined to some extent by how fresh our legs are but mostly by gradient and terrain. It's a marked contrast to perambulating pilgrims who seem to plod along, clacking their sticks at the same pace all day long. Crossing the Kingdom of Navarre is a tough undertaking whichever way you travel, first requiring that crossing of the Pyrenees, then negotiating the numerous ups, downs and hilltop towns of the Camino as it makes its way through and beyond the plains of Pamplona towards Rioja and Castille.

Sometimes our progress seems almost imperceptible. This morning a kilometre uphill took 20 minutes. Plenty of time to notice the scent of pine and eucalyptus. Click. To examine delicate flowers growing in the verges. Click. To watch olives growing on trees and lizards basking by the side of the road Click. To notice a bead of sweat form on your forehead, slide down your nose, making a salty trail to your lip. Click. To wonder why on earth you are doing this.

Then looking up, there's the brow of the hill. The prospect of redemption, release from the grind. Suddenly I feel a change of rhythm; pedals spin easier. Click. Click. Lifting my head I see a new horizon; opening up slowly at first; a new stage of the unfolding Camino. A sepulchre high on a hill, bells chiming, shadowy medieval streets, a bar, an ice cream, a tortilla bocadillo. But no time to contemplate this now. Click. Click. No pressure on my pedals now. We're freewheeling. Accelerating.

Clickety, clickety, click. A breeze in my hair at last. Sweat evaporating in the wind of descent. Thirty, forty, fifty kilometres an hour. Landscape rushing past but no time to look. Clickety, clickety, click. Concentrating hard; gripping the bars; keep the bike on track. 100 kilos of sins forcing us down the hill; faster, even faster. Clickety, clickety, click. Noisy now; flags flappering, tyres humming, wind whistling, whipping along at sixty, tuck down low, reduce resistance, nudging seventy. Clickety, clickety, click. One, two, three kilometres. At this pace we'll be in Santiago by lunchtime. Three kilometrea in three glorious minutes. Consumed in hard earned joy but noticing nothing. Perhaps there's a different joy in the perambulating clackety plod.

Pilgrims in Parallel Worlds

The sun burns on. And we cycle on. Past olive groves and bodegas, through medieval towns with cobbled streets and bolt studded doors, through scrubland and over motorways. We look for rivers to swim in and find they have dried up. Even factor 40 sun lotion and cycle shirts are poor protection against a sun that scorches and sears our skin. We ride early and late to try and avoid the worst of it, but with temperatures touching 35 degrees some days there's little window of opportunity for riding in the cool. The kids are tiring and the road is relentlessly steep; every day I hope for respite but none comes. I squint again into the sun's glare, focussing my attention on keeping the bike from wobbling on the difficult gradient, pushing, always pushing sluggish pedals around with my feet. My sunglasses lie unused in their case, their tendency to steam up on tough hills has rendered them a useless fashion accessory. The sweat builds up on my forehead, even when I pause the bike for a rest my body continues to pump it out. After a while it starts to run down my face, stinging my eyes. I can't see and the pain is irritating. I wipe my face with my tee shirt that resembles a wet rag.

And yet this is such a journey of two halves. Just another ten or so kilometres and we'll be at a campsite, plunging into a cool open air pool. And that is the beauty of cycling the Camino rather than walking it. While the pilgrims are confined to hostels in the prescribed towns on the route, meeting the same crowd each night, we have the freedom to wander off the map a little. In the late evening at Puento La Reina and Estella we see them, hanging around outside hostels and the Red Cross; they seem lethargic and drained, having walked in the hot sun to secure a bed for the night by 1pm. Meanwhile we breeze past and up the hill to a campsite that's full of partying Spaniards, cracking open beers, diving into the pool and cooking for the family. A couple of days ago we reached a hill town and felt like stopping. I wandered over to the nearest refuge. He had been full by 1pm, so had leased a church. There were already fifty pilgrims packed into the aisles and on the altar. All lay face down on dirty mattresses, or sat near stain glass windows trying to escape the heat of the evening. It was so quiet. As he showed me to a tiny space at the back of the church I tried to imagine my three children keeping this sense of sleepy quiet. I turned him down and he shook his head. Where were five peregrino's going to find accommodation at this hour? We cycled off up the hill and set up our own campsite, on the scrub , at the side of the N111. No swimming pool, no facilities, but free of charge and the children could make as much noise as they liked.

The miracle of the wine

Boys will be boys and Matthew's fiddling with the fountain made it work. Cheers!

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La Fuente de vino

We came to drink at the famous fountain of wine at Irache but the fountain was dry. Not to be put off we bought a little bottle from the vending machine conveniently alongside. Empty fountain - beaten to the well by thirsty pilgrims or a commercial gimmick? But at least we can tipsy on our way.

Road Rage

My watch says 108 F and we have just climbed 150m on an exposed stretch of road jumping from tiny patch of shade to tiny patch of shade for brief moments of relief from the heat. Meanwhile the modern pilgrim in his air conditioned car motors on the auto via way below us on a road carved through the landscape for his convenience. Such are the parallel worlds of pilgrim and 'normality' at least for today

Roadside Cafe

Needs must and with temperatures topping 100 F our riding is confined to early mornings and late evenings. Late last night, caught out in the dark, on an unexpectedly queer climb, we ended up camping in some scrub by the road side. It doesn't seen to bother the kids who are as happy having breakfast by the roadside as in a cafe. And thank goodness.

Cheated into Cheetos

Food is fuel and our tanks run dry quickly. Refueling, especially with three kids is essential but not always easy in France or Spain. We always seem to turn up at the wrong time. The Spanish eat at ten, except for the times we roll up when they have closed early. The one time we got it right we discovered we were in France and different rules were in play. Tonight in the one bar town of Lararrossoa, we got the time right but the bar was too busy to serve us before lights out at the Pension. So we settled, again, for six packets of Spanish cheesey wotsits.